Acquainted with the Night
by Arrowsbane
Summary: It isn't that she is born almost seven years ahead of schedule, or that she has dark hair rather than blonde – a fact which her mother silently curses the gods for. It is the fact that she is born with memories of a life already lived, which makes the Princess Myrcella different. [AU. X-Over. Reincarnation ficlet. Myrcella x Jon Snow] [M for Part 3]
1. Part I

**Acquainted with the Night**

 **Part I**

 **Arrowsbane**

* * *

" _I have been one acquainted with the night." -_ _Robert Frost_

* * *

In the eyes of the people, Myrcella Baratheon – firstborn of Robert Baratheon, and the first of his name - is the perfect Princess.

Her beauty is a keen competitor for that of her royal mother, Queen Cersei. With eyes are like emeralds and her glossy chestnut hair that gleams in the sunlight, she is a sight to behold. She ignores the fashions of the court, and wears her own hair half pinned up at the back of the crown of her head and decorated with golden roses that grow outside her window – roses rarely seen outside of Highgarden.

Myrcella is good and kind and thoughtful. It is she who ensures that the orphans do not starve, and she who makes sure that medicine finds its way to those in need thanks to her own network of little birds. When she rides through the streets in on the back of a black mare named Briar, the people follow her in droves and sing her praises.

They love her, and she loves them.

 **16 years earlier…**

When she is born, her mother laments and curses the fact that her child indeed belongs to her husband, when she had been so careful to drink the tansy tea and flush his seed from her womb before it could grow into anything more. Bright green eyes that almost seem to glow in the moonlight stare out from a tiny porcelain face that drinks in everything in the room with an unquenched curiosity.

Cersei watches the babe from her spot next to the gilded cradle, a pillow in her hands and a warring battle inside her – hate for her royal husband and his offspring, which quails and dies under an overwhelming barrage of maternal instinct; her fingers clench and unclench around the ends of the pillow.

She had thought to press the goose down filled case over the child's mouth and nose, and end the tiny life before it could grow to fill her heart, but she finds it is already too late – she has already surrendered her heart to the princess, to her daughter.

The pillow slips from her hands and falls to the floor with a faint sound, and the Queen bends to lift her child from the cradle. She carries her daughter to the balcony, and stares out at the warm summer's night.

"This is yours," she says, "All that you can see and beyond is yours Myrcella."

There is a voice inside her head.

* * *

It is not her voice, but that of a man. When she dreams at night, or even sometimes during the day when her Septa thinks she is working on her needlepoint, Myrcella sees a world beyond anything she might have imagined.

She sees a castle twice the size of Casterly Rock, where people wear black dresses and wield sticks of wood and say strange words. She sees a world where dragons roam free, and unicorns are real instead of some mummers' farce. She sees a world at war, and the joy that comes with peace after the mourning is done. She sees a life from before.

" _The soul has no gender_ ," that is what the voice tells her _, "it simply is what it is."_

" _We are the same soul_ ," it says, " _but not the same person_."

She thinks she understands, but isn't sure.

* * *

She is a toddler, barely three years old when her mother grows pregnant once more and Joffrey is born. The little lion with a golden mane. Growing up with him is testing at times, he often tries to bully her, but never gets any further than a verbal taunt. There is a look in her eye that warns him away – warns him that there is more to her than there appears.

Myrcella spends her days learning from her Septa, and her evenings in the bright sunny gardens chasing butterflies barefoot or batting her big green eyes at the cooks in order to sneak a lemon cake before dinner. It is an idyllic childhood, and she has not a care in the world. At the back of her mind, the voice sees this and sighs contentedly. All is well.

* * *

The voice calls himself Harry. Myrcella asks if it is short for Harrold, and Harry laughs – he has no idea. He has a wicked sense of humor and teaches her how to find a loophole in anything. She likes him. When she discovers her magic, after changing the color of her dress during a minor tantrum – and yes, she has those, he teaches her about that too.

Without access to a wand, something Harry insists is important, they have to come up with a new way of conducting her magic. In the end, it becomes something she controls by the strength of her will alone – and she has always been willful. _Ours is the Fury_ , proclaims the words of her family, and it is fitting, for while Myrcella is good and sweet and kind – there is a greater fury buried down deep inside and it burns hotter than dragonfire.

Harry finds the notion of her families' houses amusing – it is fitting (and more than a little ironic) he says, for his soul to be reborn to a woman from the house of lions, clad in scarlet and gold, with a father who bears banners with a proud Stag that dances in the wind. He absently wonders if she will ever gain the talent to shapeshift like his father did, and if she does – would she take the form of a Doe or a Lioness?

* * *

When Tommen is born, Myrcella is almost eight summers old. She isn't quite sure what to make of her new brother at first – the last one wasn't all that impressive in her opinion.

(At five years old, Joffrey is a spoiled golden bundle of fluff with a sadistic streak a mile wide. Myrcella has little patience for him, and is in a particularly bad mood with him ever since he made off with her favourite doll – a delightful china thing shipped in from Dorne and dressed in fine silk – and destroyed it by firing it from a large crossbow over the battlements.)

She sits by the gilded cradle that has stags and lions carved into the painted wood, prancing up the sides into a single peak from which hangs an arrangement of shining golden animals that dance in the breeze and gleam red in the light of the sunset. Her brother stirs in his sleep, and his face is so peaceful that Myrcella finds herself loving the child even though she does not know him yet.

"I'll keep you safe," she whispers, trailing a hand across his blankets. "I will." She promises as the last of the light dips over the sea and darkness sets in. Outside the birds sing goodnight, and she settles down to sleep in the large chair next to the cradle. She dreams of sunlight and laughter as magic fills the air once more.

* * *

When Myrcella is eleven, she is faced with a rather unpleasant truth.

She wanders away from the simpering ladies of the court and turns toward her mother's chambers to ask permission to go swimming in the sea, only to walk in on her mother and uncle… without clothes on.

The little princess stares blankly at her relatives, not entirely comprehending what exactly is happening. Inside her head, an equally stunned Harry explains it in a shaky voice. Oh. _Oh._

She closes the door – it was barely open anyway – and flees before they can notice.

Suddenly she doesn't want to go swimming anymore.

* * *

A year passes before Myrcella repeats the mistake of entering without knocking, and this time she is not so lucky as to go unnoticed. Her lady mother sees her, and pushes Uncle Jaime off the bed and onto the floor. Myrcella blinks.

"I came to find you, and nobody was here." Myrcella says as evenly as she can, and turns to leave.

"'cella!" her mother calls. Both mother and daughter ignore the groan of pain coming from the stone floor behind the bed.

"Didn't happen. Saw nothing. Nope." The brunette twelve-year-old says, and then shuts the door firmly. For a moment, she stands there in the hallway, trying to catch her breath. Then she flees, like all the demons of hell are at her heels.

Later, when she is sat in the gardens, her mother approaches and sits beside her. When she speaks, it is in a soft, but nervous tone.

"Myrcella, darling, what you saw—"

"I know what I saw mother." Cersei looks as if she has been slapped, and a noise of what could easily be surprise mixed with anger makes its way out of her throat. They sit in silence for a while, and then:

"I don't care." Myrcella says, swinging her feet back and forth childishly.

"What?"

"I said I don't care." She looks up at her mother. "I won't say anything. What you do is your own choice, I still love you." Cersei stares at her daughter for a long while, before pulling the girl into her arms and burying her face in the dark hair.

"How was I so lucky as to be given you," Her mother says in a rare moment of humbleness. Myrcella says nothing, and leans into the embrace.

* * *

Her parents, for all they say otherwise, do have favourites among their children. She is her father's, and Joffrey her mother's – poor Tommen is often ignored and Myrcella is more than happy to give him extra attention because he is _her_ favorite. The four-year-old adores anything soft and cuddly, loves to rub his face against fur and will quite happily sleep all day away in the sun if he is allowed. Myrcella enjoys nothing more than making her baby brother laugh, and she hates to hear him cry.

He cries the day that Joffrey decides to chase down the heavily pregnant kitchen cat and kill it. It is a slow death: horrid and cruel, and when Myrcella comes across her brother tormenting the poor creature, she intervenes and orders a guard to snap the poor things neck.

Joffrey howls in anger when the kill is taken from him, and kicks and screams the entire way to the throne room when she bodily throws him to the mercy of their parents. Their royal mother is appropriately horrified when she hears what her son has done, and Robert even more furious. Nobody could have anticipated the blow he dealt his son, and Cersei cries out in rage – because while she is disgusted by her sons' actions she is still his mother.

Myrcella can't decide which parent looks more upset, and then she hears it. The grief stricken wail fills the entire castle and she feels her heart sink.

Tommen has found the cat.

She doesn't wait to hear Joffrey's punishment, and sprints from the hall back to where the servants are removing the cat and Tommen is wailing, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. She pulls him into her arms and runs her fingers through his soft golden halo, murmuring apologies all the while. He thrashes in her arms until she orders the cat to be buried in the gardens, beneath the tree it used to enjoy sleeping in. The rest of the afternoon is spent sat with her brother in her arms as he sniffles through his grief, eyes locked onto the mound of soil that marks the feline's grave.

The next day, they return to the garden and kneel in the soil, pushing the earth about with their bare hands until there are at least a dozen daffodil bulbs buried as a memorial.

When the stable cat has its own litter a few months later, she makes sure that a tiny ginger kitten appears in Tommen's chambers.

* * *

Myrcella has her father wrapped around her little finger, everybody knows this. She'll turn down the corners of her mouth, tilt up her head so that her eyes look huge, and tell him what she wants in a plaintive tone. If her voice happens to be laced with magic, and her eyes glowing just ever so slightly so that he feels compelled to fulfill her request, nobody will ever know. It isn't like she's asking for the keys to the Kingdom.

She keeps her requests simple – to learn to ride a horse and shoot a bow and arrow, to wield a dagger in case she is ever without her guards, to wear breeches beneath her shortened gowns while she spars in order to allow movement.

Whatever she asks for, he gives her – how could he resist: for as her mother shines with the beauty of the sun, blazing and golden and glorious; Myrcella is the other side to the coin. With skin porcelain as the moon and hair as black as night, eyes that shine like emeralds and a temperament as sweet as a summer breeze - it is no wonder that she has young lords stretching from Riverrun to the Vale, and even as far as Dorne asking for her hand in marriage.

" _Minx,"_ the voice in her head whispers fondly, and she smiles.

Nobody dares to ask what she finds so amusing.

* * *

On her thirteenth name day, Myrcella receives a basket of golden roses from Highgarden, along with a request for a betrothal to the Tyrell heir. Her father contemplates it, and mother rages that she will not allow her daughter to be sold as she herself was, like a common sow.

Her father makes the argument that it would be a good match, and would bring the Reach under his direct control, but in the end her mother wins and all Myrcella has of the Gardens is her roses. When they wilt and die, she saves the seeds and shares them with Tommen. They plant them at the base of a trellis below her room in the hopes that the roses will climb and fill the air with their sweet scent.

Within a week, thanks to tender care, green shoots begin to appear and Myrcella's eyes shine with joy.

* * *

She is five and ten summers old when Jon Arryn falls from his horse during a Tourney and dies.

Her royal father declares that they will ride for Winterfell, and Myrcella defies her mother in riding on horseback alongside her father and uncle more days than not during the month-long trek.

The idea of spending large amounts of time in an enclosed space with her brothers gives her a headache – Joffrey is a pain in her royal arse and Tommen, while sweet as pie, can witter endlessly and it tests even her patience at times. She has no desire to endure the kerfuffle that usually ensues when Joffrey decides to bully their youngest sibling.

At night, she more than happily joins her siblings in the giant wheelhouse and curls under the thick furs to hide from the chill of the North, and tucks Tommen under an arm. Her mother's fingers slip through her dark curls under the cover of night and Myrcella sighs in contentment. Family is everything to the Princess.

* * *

They arrive in the afternoon, filing into the stone courtyard with banners proudly flying the Baratheon colors of gold and black. Her royal father swings down from his horse and laughingly greets a man who can only be Lord Stark, before turning to survey the Lord's family. Myrcella slides down from the saddle with all the grace she possesses and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, standing patiently by her horse until her father is ready to introduce her.

The Lady Stark wears a severe expression and her dark auburn hair is bound tightly, her hand resting upon her eldest sons' shoulder – a boy who has inherited her hair and eyes. Myrcella allows her eyes to flit over the boy who can only be the Greyjoy hostage she has heard her father mention, and then she sees _him_ tucked away nearer the back of the group as to not draw attention.

Jon Snow has eyes of ice and steel, and a perpetual frown upon his face. His dark hair curls barely brush the nape of his neck and she absently wonders what it would feel like to wind one of those curls around her finger. It is clear to anyone who knows her, that Myrcella is smitten from the moment she sees him.

She smiles at him, looking up from beneath her dark lashes and tries hard not to preen with pride as he turns ever so slightly pink. _"Flirt,"_ Harry teases her, and she doesn't protest. Rather she rolls her shoulders back and holds her head up high.

(She inherited her charm from her father – something that he seems to have lost somewhere in his wineskin over the years, no doubt dulled by the coin in his pockets and weighed down by the crown atop his head. Who needs charm and wit when you are the king? Alas, she is just a Princess and so her charm is her sharpest weapon.)

The younger children stand by their brother's side – a girl with hair even redder than her mother that seems to swoon when Joffrey trots in alongside their uncle Jaime, and for that alone, Myrcella mentally dismisses her; another girl with dark hair and a difficult expression who challenges the king with her tone alone and he laughs. The girl has spirit. The last of the Stark children are two young boys, younger than Tommen and Myrcella dismisses them too simply for a lack of knowing how to communicate with small children.

The door to the wheelhouse opens and her royal mother descends in a graceful collection of silk and furs, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Tommen follows at her heel and Myrcella joins them, taking his hand in hers as they approach the Starks who bow and welcome them with kind words. Her father loudly proclaims that he must pay his respects and Myrcella can see her mother visibly tense. Lord Stark bows his head and leads her father away even as her mother protests. If there is one thing about her father that Myrcella does not like, it is his disregard for her mother – his whoring is not uncommon, but the way he is so blatant is a slap in the face to both his wife and children. Thankfully Tommen is too young and shielded to know of it.

"I don't understand," her baby brother whines as they follow their mother and Uncle into the main House. "Where is father going?"

"He is going to visit the previous Lord Stark," she lies quickly, because there are ears everywhere and she has no desire to make her mother suffer further. "Father and Lord Stark were fostered together like brothers, and so Father is going to pay his respects to the family." She catches her mother's eye and holds her breath for a moment. Then Cersei nods in approval and she feels relieved.

Myrcella ushers her younger brother inside and sees that he is settled in his room before asking a servant to lead her to the crypt. She is curious to see the likeness of the woman her father staged a rebellion over. It is cold and dark, and for a moment she falters before whispering a spell. The torch in her hand flares to life, the flames flicker in the draft. She follows the length of the crypt, staring up at the stone faces of the long dead until she hears voices.

"—ve been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection," he father's voice says. "It is not too late. I have son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses."

"Sansa is only eleven," the low voice of Lord Stark answers, and Myrcella remembers the slight girl with the shining red hair who looked at her brother so adoringly. Such a girl deserves a knight – a man of honor, not the monster that lurks beneath her brother's skin.

"Old enough for a betrothal," her father says, and she cannot stay quiet any longer.

"Why not me?" She says clearly, stepping into the light of their own torch. The two men turn to stare at her.

"Why not me?" She repeats. "I am old enough to marry, I am sixteen next summer. Why wait?" She asks. Lord Stark looks surprised to see her, and she raises her chin. She is the Princess Baratheon, firstborn of Robert Baratheon. She bows to no man.

"Myrcella," her royal father warns. "Your mother would have my head."

"Not if I ask her first," she replies. They both know just how persuasive she is. Lord Stark's expression has turned to contemplation and he looks back to the King.

"She is of a similar age to Robb…"

"No. The other one." She says, and both men blink in confusion.

"Jon?" her Father says slowly, as if drawing the name up from the dregs of his memory even though he has heard it not an hour ago.

"Myrcella, he is not trueborn." She hates the way he phrases it, as if she is a fool.

"Then legitimize him," She says, waving a hand. "You are the king, and he is not the firstborn – it will not change the line of succession for the next Lord of Winterfell." Lord Stark sputters and chokes, as the words volley back and forth between father and daughter.

"Myrcella!" her father protests and so she tilts her head to the side, letting the light catch the green of her eyes and light up. They almost seem to glow in the torchlight and her father tenses.

"I like his eyes," Myrcella presses, and then shrugs, "there is something of the wolf in them."

There is a pause, and then her father lets out a mighty sigh.

"On your own head be it," he says, and then adds hurriedly. "But you have to tell your mother." Then he turns to Lord Stark.

"Will you allow it Ned?" He asks, and the Lord of Winterfell looks rather concussed for a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it, opens it again and finally resorts to a short, curt nod of consent when the words fail him.

Myrcella smiles, and it is a radiant smile, dancing forwards on excited feet to embrace her father and curtsey to the Lord Stark. She'll never bow her head, but she still has her manners.

"Off with you my girl," the King laughs, and Myrcella spins on the spot, happily scampering off to find her mother. A servant takes the still-burning torch from her, and directs her to the rooms that the Queen is resting in, and Myrcella once again demonstrates her hatred of announcing her presence. She careens into the room like a force of nature, an unstoppable a whirl of crimson skirts and dark curls.

"I am to be married," she tells her mother, and takes pride in the fact that her mother is so shocked that she drops one of the golden combs she had been pinning her hair back with. Cersei's shriek of anger echoes through Winterfell, and down in the crypt, Robert and Eddard share a look.

"Maybe we should stay down here a little longer," the King suggests nervously, for as much as his daughter loves her mother, she also enjoys causing chaos.

* * *

 **Part I of III.**

 **So... this spawned in my brain, most of it was written on a plane and I wanted to post this arc before I wrote the rest.**

 **Currently pondering the rest and plotting. Poor Jon - Pity him. Myrcella is used to getting what she wants.**


	2. Part II

**Acquainted with the Night**

 **Part II**

 **Arrowsbane**

* * *

" _I have walked out in rain - and back in rain." -_ _Robert Frost_

* * *

Eddard doesn't even know where to begin when he calls his family together into his solar. Catelyn sweeps in, her skirts rustling as she settles Rickon upon her lap on the large soft chair, and Sansa follows her mother like a dutiful daughter. Arya and Bran enter next, both smudged with dirt from causing mischief. Finally, Robb and Jon slink in, both of them scowling from the humiliation of being shorn like sheep.

He paces back and forth for a while, rubbing a hand over his face as he tries to decide the best way to explain. He stops, and turns to face his family and sighs wearily.

"The King wishes to unite our Houses," He begins slowly, carefully looking from each face to another, trying to gauge their reactions to his words, "with a Betrothal," he adds. Catelyn fixes eyes as sharp as an eagle on him, her mind clearly running a league a minute.

"Sansa?" She asks, and he can hear her concern for their eldest daughter in her voice.

"No," he says, pretending he can't hear her slight sigh of relief while he watches his daughter's face cycle through a myriad of emotions – from delight and anticipation to devastation as her dreams of a golden prince atop a white stallion flash before her eyes and turn to fire and ash.

"I don't understand," Sansa says, her voice verging on a pathetic whine, and there are tears threatening to start.

"Am I not good enough? I can be better," She says, fingers twitching as if she wants to reach for her embroidering and present it to the King himself. Eddard winces, and steels himself to continue.

"It was considered," he elaborates, "but the Princess intervened. She offered herself in place of her brother."

"Robb?" His wife says, her eyes already hardening at the idea of some southern girl stealing away her son. Eddard shakes his head, and watches Robb's eyebrows rise.

"Then who?" The auburn-haired boy asks, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

"The King is going to legitimize Jon." He says, because there is no better way to say it.

It feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room, and Catelyn's expression is stormy. Robb looks delighted, and Sansa refuses to look at her brothers while both Bran and Arya tackle their older brother with cheers of joy – Jon just sits there with his siblings hugging him, his face pale and a lost look in his eyes as his world seems to tilt on its axis and chaos reigns.

"Why?" Jon asks, baffled by the notion that he will be a Stark in every meaning of the word. His voice cracks on that single syllable. Eddard sighs again, and rubs at the crease between his brows.

"The Princess herself asked for it, and Robert has never been able to deny her anything." He says, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose as he watches his son stumble onto unsteady feet and back away – almost tripping over the edge of a rug.

"I – I don't. I can't." Jon stammers as his brain tries to comprehend everything he has been told, and staggers backwards.

"I-I need to think," he says, feeling for the latch on the door and lets himself out.

"I'm sorry Jon," Ned offers, but is too late.

His son is already gone.

* * *

He is not hiding.

He's not, really he isn't. He's just… taking the long way around. Yes, the scenic route.

Jon Snow – Stark now dammit, paces down the halls of Winterfell hurriedly, his mind awash with a thousand thoughts. It is not that the Princess Baratheon is not beautiful – and oh, yes, he has noticed – the way she had looked at him in the courtyard from beneath those soft lashes, peering out at the world from eyes the color of wildfire that blaze just as bright, had sent numerous illicit thoughts straight to his groin. But they were just supposed to be exactly that, and now the Princess has demanded him, a bastard son of the North. It is a surely a joke, and yet his Lord Father's words had said otherwise.

" _Robert has never been able to deny her anything,"_ Those words echo inside his mind, tearing at him. Absently he decides the Princess must be spoilt and insipid if she believes that people can be bought and sold at a whim.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of crimson silk and suppresses a curse. _Dammit_. He turns on his heel and tries to escape before she sees him, but is too late.

"Stark." Her voice rolls over him like a waterfall and it is just as beautiful as its owner.

"Your Highness," he says, turning back around to face her, "forgive me. I did not see you."

The Princess Baratheon raises a single dark eyebrow, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"I'm sure," she replies, and it's obvious that she knows he is lying. Jon fidgets with the hem of his shirt, as she watches him lazily. The silence is palpable and he wants nothing more than to be able to retreat from the hallway and find an excuse to be elsewhere.

Myrcella smiles and takes leisurely steps toward him until they are barely a foot apart, and Jon feels as though he is a mouse being studied by a hungry cat. He opens his mouth to say something, but a finger on his lip quiets him, before the rest of her slender hand turns to cup his cheek – the tips of her fingers brush against his ear lobe and he shivers. Green eyes light up with the knowledge that her touch has power over him and he tries to back away, but is too late.

She kisses with passion that burns as brightly as the color of her eyes, and it is like he is drowning in her. She kisses like a sinner, and it reminds him of the darkest chocolate that his father had once allowed them to taste, makes him think of the richest wine and the sweetest cakes – tantalizing like the forbidden fruit.

Myrcella shows no mercy and lets nothing escape her grasp, taking everything from him that she can as she presses into his space. He can feel her hair tickling his cheek and the curve of her body pressing up against his, hear the rustle of her skirts as the fabric crushes against his hips as the minx slides ever closer to him. Her lips smile against his as she tilts her hips and rubs against him where he knows he is painfully hard, clearly enjoying her power over him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers the sound of a low needy whine and flushes when he realizes that it came from him.

When she releases him, he is breathing heavily and his eyes are slightly glazed. Faces barely an inch apart, the two teens stare at each other – one dazed and the other smiling wickedly. Somehow, and he doesn't remember it happening, he has a hand fisted in her hair and another firmly at the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. It is with a startled squawk that he lets her go, and she laughs – low and warmly, which makes him feel dizzy and drunk all over again.

He takes back his earlier words – she is not a spoilt brat, she is a woman who knows what she wants and will take it regardless. And she wants him. That thought alone makes him swallow thickly.

She presses back against him once more, pushing at him until his back hits the cold stone behind him and kisses him again – shaping her mouth against his and winding her hand into his curls, pulling him down to her as she steals his breath from him once more. Jon's knees go weak for a moment when she teasingly bites down on his lip and flicks her tongue over the bruised flesh, before releasing him with a wink and a saucy smile and sauntering away and leaving him with a thousand dangerously dirty thoughts inside his head, hormones bubbling so close to the surface.

Jon closes his eyes and leans his head back until it meets the cold wall with a dull thunk and whimpers to himself.

He is so screwed.

* * *

Jon does his best to hide during the feast, slinking in to find his usual spot for when nobility visits - near the end of the hall where he can make a quick exit if he so likes, Ghost at his heels. Smoke hangs in the air, clouding the lines of sight even further and the walls are draped in bright banners of white, gold and crimson.

For a short while, he gets away with hiding in the corner, until his Lord father swoops down behind him, claps a firm hand on his shoulder and steers him toward the front of the hall, whistling for Ghost to follow. Jon curses under his breath as he is presented before the royal family and then spun on the spot like a rag doll to face the hall as the King stands.

What follows is a litany of pretty words – and it's beyond obvious that somebody else wrote this speech, considering just how roughly-hewn the King is – that basically tell everybody that he, the (un)lucky sod that he is, has been legitimized and betrothed to the Princess Myrcella. The lady in question sits there looking absolutely stunning in a golden gown and her hair pinned just-so: a crown of braids held in place with jeweled pins and a cascade of curls stretching past her shoulders.

Jon wants nothing more than to bolt as he feels her gaze fall on him and his face redden as he remembers their last meeting in the hallway, barely managing to keep his feet as he is steered toward a seat. Ghost curls up on his feet, staring hungrily at the honeyed meats atop the table.

If he were down on the benches, he could drown himself in his cups, but up here on the dais he has to uphold the example of remaining sober. Making a run for it is looking better with every second – especially when he makes the mistake of accidentally locking gazes with the Lady Stark, and she looks downright furious, as if she could slit his throat right then and there.

"Interesting colors for a wolf," says a voice from his right, and Jon jerks as he realizes he has been sat next to the Queen (his Father and the King share the center chairs, flanked by their wives) and he does his best not to gape. She is dressed in a brilliant scarlet gown, embroidered with gold and her glossy hair hands in perfect corkscrew curls to her waist. A brilliant golden crown sits atop her head, embedded with a dozen gleaming and glittering jewels that are resplendent and only enhance her beauty.

"I – yes. I suppose." He replies, wanting to kick himself for his ineloquence.

"What is his name?" The Queen asks, green eyes alight with curiosity and she reminds him of her daughter.

"Ghost," he says, and she laughs.

"It suits him," Cersei smiles, reaching out a delicate hand for the pup to sniff. Ghost politely raises a paw for her to shake, tilting his head in curiosity.

Quite frankly, Jon is more than a little terrified at how nice the Queen is being to him – especially considering how her only daughter is engaged to be married to him and that god-awful shriek that had echoed around Winterfell just this afternoon, but the Royal Lady just smiles indulgently and very solemnly shakes the offered paw.

"He's very well trained," she comments and Jon nods.

"Father insisted." Jon says, and then adds: "He says a Direwolf can take a man's arm off at the shoulder with an ease." The Queen's eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline as she eyes the pup sat at his feet.

"Only if provoked though," he says quickly, not wanting her to order that Ghost be sent away. "Ghost would do anything to keep me safe."

The Queen tilts her head in contemplation for a moment, and then says: "Well, at least my daughter will have adequate protection." Jon smiles, or tries to, but then raucous laughter draws their attention to where the King, so deep in his cups that he can barely stand, tears a roast chicken to shreds and not even three minutes later proceeds to paw at a serving wench in an uncouth manner.

Jon winces, and feels the Queen go stiff with cold rage beside him. It's more than obvious that whatever conversation they were having is now over and so he keeps his mouth shut except for when he eats. He sneaks a decent-sized pheasant to Ghost, or at least tries to – he knows that the Queen has seen it and he ducks his head in apology.

Underneath the table, Ghost tears the dead bird to pieces and absently, Jon wishes he could do the same without fear of reprisal. It's been that sort of day.

* * *

The next morning, Myrcella is unsurprised that her father is keen to go for a hunt, as he has a liking for wild boar glazed with honey. Joffrey, the little shit, demands to ride out along with the men, and so the two eldest stark boys are permitted to go too, as is the Greyjoy ward.

Myrcella is left alone with Tommen and her new younger siblings-to-be and so she does the best with what she has by whispering sweet words in the cook's ear, arranging for plates of sweetcakes and little pies to be sent up to her mother's solar along with several steaming pitchers of spiced wine which she knows will placate her royal mother, before climbing the stone steps to the next level where her mother's rooms are located, Tommen in tow.

A request to a servant brings Lady Stark and her daughters and youngest son to the solar, where the Lady Stark sits and makes polite conversation with the Queen. Rickon sits at their feet cuddled against his black direwolf Shaggydog, who is more than content to sleep the afternoon away.

Tommen finds a friend in Arya – as loath as she is to be there, instead of out causing mayhem – by falling in love with Nymeria, and the proud girl is more than willing to show him all the tricks that the she-wolf pup has learnt, how soft her fur is, how sharp her claws and teeth.

Myrcella however, chooses to draw Sansa into conversation as they work on their embroidery together; some form of tapestry for Sansa and the edging of a velvet cloak for the princess with golden thread – already tiny stags are beginning to take form upon the dark cloth.

"I hear you enjoy lemon cakes," Myrcella says in a light tone, pointedly looking at the platter upon which sits numerous yellow cakes with fine white sugar decorating the top, something that must have been shipped in from Dorne where the sugar canes flourish in the heat.

Sansa nods tersely, not making eye contact with the older girl and choosing to focus instead upon the blue roses she is steadily working into the fabric.

"I thought perhaps that you and I may take some time to get to know each other," Myrcella says, pulling the shining thread through the cloth, but keeping her eyes focused on her companion. "after all, we are to be sisters, are we not?" Sansa's fingers clench round the tiny needle and her mouth thins to a straight line.

"I think you will like the capitol, it is full of light and—"

"Why did you interfere?" The younger girl says suddenly, "Why couldn't you let me marry your brother? We would still have been sisters."

Myrcella eyes the pre-teen warily, and chooses her next words carefully. "You find my brother beautiful, do you not?" She asks, her eyes guarded. Sansa nods.

"I would have been his queen and our children would have been beautiful too." She says, her mind clearly still trapped in a world of dreams where princes save maidens from dragons – but the dragons are long dead and Myrcella knows that a monster lurks behind her brother's pretty face.

"Something you should remember," Myrcella says solemnly, putting down her embroidery, and lowering her voice so that their mothers cannot hear, "is that in this world, the things that shine brightest often have the sharpest sting. My brother is one of those things."

"What about you," Sansa replies haughtily, clearly angered by her evasion, "are you not admittedly beautiful?" Myrcella smiles.

"You flatter me," She says, amusement evident in her countenance, "and yet you are correct. I am dangerous – more so than my brother. But he is by far the more violent, and just as easy6 to anger."

"I do not understand," Sansa says, eyeing her up and down. Myrcella sighs, and begins stitching once more.

"When I was twelve, and Joffrey nine," she says quietly, her eyes not moving from where her royal mother sits as though she is holding court, "he hunted down a heavily pregnant cat that lived in the palace gardens, and killed it, simply for the fact that he wanted to see what the kittens looked like and was too impatient to wait for the birth." Sansa's eyes go wide as her face drains of blood, she says nothing.

"In my brother's mind," Myrcella continues, "lives that are less valuable than his own matter little, and he can do as he pleases with them. Do you understand little sister, that I would not have you mistreated by him?" The auburn haired girl nods slowly and reaches down to where her direwolf lies at her feet, winding her fingers through Lady's soft fur in search of comfort. The wolf whines, sensing her mistress's pain and raises her head to lean against Sansa's knee.

"Yes," Sansa says faintly, "I suppose I do." Myrcella nods and they continue on in silence for a while longer, before Sansa finally looks up.

"But…" Myrcella raises an eyebrow.

"But what?" She asks.

"I still don't understand," Sansa tilts her head contemplatively, "why you chose Jon. Why not Robb?" Myrcella laughs, a sweet smile stretching across her face as her eyes light up.

"Honestly?" Sansa nods, curious, "I saw the look your mother gave me when we rode in, saw how firmly her hand was set on your brother's shoulder. I was not sure I could handle her as a second mother."

"Oh." Sansa blinks, surprised.

"But if anybody ever asks, tell them I thought Jon's hair looked like it would be fun to pull on," Myrcella winks at her sister-to-be, who blushes and nods with a giggle. Somewhere, in the midst of the shock and amusement, Sansa decides that she quite likes the idea of an older sister.

* * *

The morning that they are due to leave dawns bright and clear, with a crisp chill feeling on the air and for a moment Mrycella thinks of the Stark words: Winter is Coming. It certainly feels that way, to be sure. She is tempted to slip into her animal form and bask in the warmth of the thick fur that it has, but knows her presence will be missed.

Instead, the dark-haired princess draws the thick fur stole so kindly gifted to her by her father-to-be tighter around her, ignoring the rustle as her skirts – a pale blue-silver shade this time, and follows the long hallway down to the courtyard where the servants are loading the wheel-house and saddling the horses.

Silently, she glides into the stables to find her own mount, the faithful black mare who has carried her since she was a girl and is greeted by a soft whicker as she steps into the stall and picks up a brush to sweep down the mare's flanks. It is a point of pride for Myrcella, that she alone cares for her mount. There is a clatter as three boys enter the stables and Myrcella ducks her head as she sees it is the two eldest Stark boys and the ward – Greyjoy. They walk right past Briar's stall, close enough that she can see the tense look on Jon's face and the grins on the other boys'.

"—going south?" Greyjoy's voice drifts over to her ears. Myrcella peers over the edge of the stall just in time to see the shrug of Jon's shoulders and the shake of his head.

"'m going North," he says, "to the Wall." Robb laughs and claps him on the back.

"And miss out on the Princess?" He asks his brother, "Are you mad? Men would give their sword arm for a night with her." Jon grunts, hefts his saddle onto his arm and steps into a nearby stall to saddle his horse – a dark bay with a white stripe on its face and three white socks. Greyjoy laughs as he leans back against the wooden slats of the stall.

"Boy doesn't know where to put it," he teases, and Robb snorts. In the stall, Jon ducks down to buckle the girth and ignores the others. He mumbles a reply, but it is too quiet for Myrcella to hear. Then Jon is leading his horse out of the stable and into the daylight, and the other boys follow. Myrcella is alone with Briar, and she buries her face into the mare's dark mane and tries not to cry. _She_ _isn't_ _wanted_ _._ She isn't used to not being wanted, and the thought of rejection stings at her.

It hurts more than she could have imagined it would, and she knows that he has no reason to care for her, no obligation. It isn't like she hadn't been prepared for a loveless marriage – the simple fact that she had been born a princess means that she could have long since been betrothed for an alliance to somebody she had never even met. She only made it this far because her father panders to her every whim.

" _I'm so sorry 'cella,"_ Harry's voice says inside her mind as she sniffles and breaths deep in order to stem the tears, _"he's a fool if he doesn't see how amazing you are."_

"Thankyou," she whispers in return and finishes brushing Briar's coat, "but don't count me out just yet." Then she settles her own saddle upon the mare's back and fastens the girth. The bridle comes next and then she takes a moment to compose herself, pressing her forehead against the mare's, before leading her out into the courtyard where Lord Stark and her father are saying goodbye to Lady Stark.

Myrcella won't be sorry to say goodbye to the Lady, not when she watches her with cold-as-stone eyes. The princess knows that she won't be forgiven for Jon's legitimization easily, not when Lady Stark is so eager to blame the son for the father's choices; and brushes past them, leading her horse to a mounting block and swinging up into the saddle with ease before rearranging the cloak around her in order to keep out the cool air. She nudges Briar forwards and out through the gates, locking eyes with Robb Stark as she goes – his expression twists as his eyes flick over the horses in the yard, clearly doing a quick headcount, and he realizes that she was in the stables too.

Myrcella nudges Briar again, urging the marge into a swift trot and past the wheel-house that carries her mother and younger brother toward the head of the caravan, steeling herself against the cold as the wind tugs at her curls, trying to pull them loose from the tight chignon she has pinned to the back of her head.

The days' ride is quiet, barring the roaring laughter from her kingly father as he reminisces with her future good-father, and lonely. Myrcella amuses herself by mentally recounting all the sordid tales her little birds had whispered to her the week before she left the capitol. She's halfway through trying to remember the rumors of Lady Lysa Arryn taking a lover when her uncle Tyrion rides up beside her.

"What troubles you, niece? Misery does not become you, my dear," Tyrion says to her, a wry smile twisting his lips as he tilts his head sideways. She scowls and tosses her head.

"It is nothing," she says, drawing the fur tighter around her, tucking the corners under her arms and around to her back in order to tie them together, "I am simply colder than I would like to be."

"And it has nothing to do with that betrothed of yours?" Tyrion asks, eyes glinting with humor. Myrcella snarls, and her uncle raises his eyebrows. "My dear niece, have you not tried charming him?"

She blushes and refuses to look at him, hands clutching the reins even tighter. Tyrion laughs.

"He bolted, didn't he? Oh dear."

"I do not need your mocking, dear uncle." She snaps back, tossing her head.

"I am not mocking you," he protests, "but surely you see how skittish the boy is. Lady Stark has not loved him well, and he is wary – rightfully so."

The Princess sighs and her shoulders droop. "I do not know what to do," she confesses. "He plans to go to the Wall."

"As do I," her Uncle points out. "He will not stray, I promise you. I'll drag him back myself if needs must." The image of Jon hogtied, and trussed up like a pig over the back of her Uncle's mount is amusing enough to keep her in good spirits until the reach Wintertown where those bound for the Wall split off from the main party.

But when they are gone from the lonely little town, doubt creeps in and she feels even colder than before. Even the thick fur around her cannot warm her heart.

* * *

She's never been very good at being patient, and every day takes her farther south, just as she knows Jon is moving further North with her uncle Tyrion. Every day means they are farther apart, and she won't say it aloud, but she is afraid he may pledge himself to the Wall rather than return south and say his vows to her.

Tyrion may have promised to protect her future, but she knows that an unwilling husband would be worse than none at all. Such a short time, and yet she finds she already longs for the boy with dark hair and eyes of ice and snow, dreams of his face. She is too much like her father that she loves so easily, so quickly.

It is in the dark of the night, their faces lit only by the flickering of the campfire that she tells her kingly father of her feelings.

"I don't want to lose him," she confesses, "like you lost Lyanna."

Robert frowns, his dark eyes staring into the glowing embers and Myrcella knows his mind is far, far away - remembering days filled with the smiles and laughter of the woman he had loved, days before the rebellion and the endless fighting on fields stained with the blood of nobles: young and old alike. Back when he had hope that he might see his winter rose once again.

The King looks back to his daughter, who is so much like him – so easy to anger, so quick to fall in love. Her kindness and loyal nature with a penchant for mischief does not come from him, and sometimes he thinks that he sees Lyanna in her, somedays can even pretend that her eyes are grey like his lost love and that Myrcella is her daughter.

"Then go after him," Robert finds himself saying, "don't let him slip through your fingers."

"You mean it?" Mrycella asks, her head snapping up off of her knees. Her voice is so full of hope that Robert cannot bring himself to retract the words.

"I trust you," he says, "I know you can take care of yourself." Myrcella frowns, confused.

"You aren't making me take a guard?" She asks, because even though she knows that she can take on anything, she expects her father to be a bit more cautious than this. Robert smiles.

"You may think that you're as sneaky as your mother," he says with a wry grin, "but when you were three, I caught you changing the color of the draperies." Myrcella's eyes go wide.

"What?" She cries in a panic, and Robert laughs, and pulls her in for a hug.

"You are my daughter," he tells her, "and there is nothing I do not think you can handle."

Myrcella grins and looks up at him. "When do I leave?"

"If your mother has any say: never," He winks at her, "so best slip away before its light. Then we can say I didn't know, yes?" She grins in reply and nods, slipping silently to her feet and then bustling about as quickly as possible to ensure she has enough horse-feed for the journey – she can catch her own food – and a change of clothes inside her secretly-endless saddlebag. She darts back to her father's side and hugs him.

"Thankyou papa," she whispers, and steps backwards, into the woods with her faithful mare in tow. The enchanted saddlebag is disillusioned with a whisper, and then Myrcella allows her magic to take control and changes. She will not retake human form until she is just outside of Mole's Town, and then ride Briar from there to the Wall.

Large, soft paws crush the snow and grey fur flecked with black blends into the shadowed landscape as Myrcella takes another form. Beside her, Briar snorts, unafraid of the wild beast that her mistress has become, having seen the form of the large cat many times before.

Together, the two trek northwards, leaving behind civilization and moving toward the great glacial structure that towers above the coming forests.

Far away, and many miles to the north, a loan figure with dark curls stands on top of the Wall. He looks up as the wind rushes past and for a moment he looks south to where his Lady is. Then he turns to look Northward once more.

* * *

 **AN** Tumblr address: Arrowsbane-Acquaintednight dot Tumblr dot com

 **So… this is Part II. I know I said Three Parts… But... I feel I could expand so much more. Hands in the air for a continuation past chapter three? I promise there is smut in the next chapter – feel very proud of yourselves, I haven't ever dared to write anything beyond insinuation before and my betas are foaming at the mouth for me to finish said scene. (I'm actually more than a little scared of their fanaticism to be honest). I recommend you keep an eye on the tumblr page. I'll be updating character files and posting notes on characters (there is already one up about Myrcella) to explain some of the things they do. I'll also have the Ask Me function online, and will begin building an FAQ.**

 **Oh, and to the Guest who was highly informative about porcelain. I commend you on your point – it was actually really interesting to read; I love snippets of info like this. But… one tiny flaw in your logic. It was Myrcella who deemed it porcelain… the girl with all those memories from a lifetime that began in 1980… So, it kinda is okay for her to think of it as porcelain.**

 **I know I haven't gone deep into it, but this AU of Westerosi is based on the premise that it is Earth set about 8–9 thousand years after the events of HP. The forest-people who helped raise the wall were Wizards. The Others? Well…. We all know just how thick some wizards can be. /coughs/ soul-sucking prison guards at a school /coughs/**

 **Now – onto the fun and games. Y'all get to play "Guess the Animagus". First five people to correctly guess her form in a Review (or a PM if you're shy) gets a cameo of their choice – be it an OC or themselves, or even an actual character. Your clues? Grey. Black. White. Paws. Thick fur. Can survive in cold regions. Good luck!**


	3. Part III

**Acquainted with the Night**

 **Part III**

 **Arrowsbane**

* * *

" _I have outwalked the furthest city light." -_ _Robert Frost_

* * *

The wall is cold and imposing.

That is Jon's first thought as he stares up at the impossibly tall monument that stretches the width of the continent. Beside him Tyrion mutters something about northerners and ice, but he isn't listening to his uncle-to-be, he's too busy wondering how in the name of the gods did anybody manage to build such a monstrosity. Benjen claps him on the shoulder and it jerks him back into awareness. Jon shakes his head like a wet dog and urges the horse forwards, following the others into the stone courtyard.

The whole area is covered in ice and snow that is so typical of the Far North that lies beyond the Wall and Jon shivers as he gazes up at the wood and stone that makes up the battlements of Castle Black, manned by men dressed in the color that the fortress is named for.

"Not what you imagined?" says a dry voice to his left, and Jon looks over to see Tyrion eyeing up the Watchmen.

"Not exactly, no." He admits.

For years he's held an image in his mind of a proud brotherhood guarding the realm from the eternal winter beyond the Wall. But all he sees is a ragtag group of misfits, third sons and criminals dressed in clothes barely thick enough to keep their flesh from dying while their hearts still beat.

It's not exactly all it's cracked up to be.

It looks lonely. It looks hopeless and forlorn. It looks tired.

Jon bows his head in shame, not wanting to meet their eyes.

* * *

The clangor of one blade landing upon another is a rather distinct sound – somewhere between the likeness of a bell, and stone crashing to the ground, or at least that's Jon's opinion. He's been drafted – very politely asked by his uncle Benjen – into helping train the new recruits. He's stronger than them, faster than them, better trained. And they know it. They resent him for it.

Jon sighs as yet another lunges wildly at him, and he's able to parry the blow with a flick of his wrist, sending the poor boy staggering into one of his fellows – they both fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

"You're too obvious," He tells them, "and you're throwing yourself off balance when you lunge like that."

Pyp and Grenn snap at him angrily. Jon rolls his eyes, settling back into his initial stance again.

"Look at me," He says, "Look how I'm keeping my stance firm, and using my sword as an extension of my body." When he swings his sword, he does so with the wrist, allowing it to be another joint.

"You lot are swinging from your shoulders. Hold your sword parallel to the ground, and swing from the wrist. It feels weaker, but it'll grant you better mobility and it's a lot quicker too. A split second could save your life in battle."

He sets them in a line, showing them how to lunge without throwing themselves onto their opponents' blades. Not five minutes in, and Alliser Thorne, the Master-of-Arms, decides to make an appearance. The man is more than content to let him train the new recruits – a job that the man should be doing himself – but he loves to make snide cutting remarks, sneering at Jon's new last name, constantly calling him 'Lord Snow'. Thankfully the man has enough common sense to not sneer at his swordplay.

Jon sighs, watching half of the boys trip over the own feet before he tells them to put the scabbards on the swords so they won't kill themselves, and run them through drill after drill on footwork and balance. It's only hours later, once they can move without threatening to twist an ankle, that he allows them to begin to swing their swords.

After that, he makes sure to drill them on their footwork at the beginning of every session, he wants them to be so used to the movements that they can do it without thinking. He won't be here for long, but at least it will give them a firm foundation to work on.

It's going to take a _lot_ of work.

* * *

It's been a week now, since they arrived at the Wall, and Jon isn't really sure what to think. On the one hand, he's surrounded by the life he had always wanted. On the other, he's not so sure it's what he wants anymore and doesn't know how to come to terms with that thought.

If he lets go of his dream so easily, will it mean that he is lacking in conviction? Jon rests his head in his hands, elbows firmly pressed against the wood of the balcony railing.

He's distracted from his heavy thoughts by a murmur of voices that grows steadily louder as the men of the Watch filter into the courtyard, or rather, they arrive in gossiping gaggles that suggests something big has just happened – or that important news has just flown in on the wings of a raven.

Then his world tilts on his axis as Myrcella's familiar face appears, speaking intently with the Lord Commander, her arm tucked into the crook of the older mans'.

The sight of the princess steals his breath away – her dark brown curls are bound up tightly against the back of her head and her fur stole is wrapped around slender shoulders and a graceful neck. She isn't wearing a dress, he notices, but tight pants of deerskin tucked into worn travelling boots and a black leather bodice attached to a slight train – both decorated with golden stags - over a warm shirt. It's practically indecent, even though she shows no skin, and leaves little to the imagination when it comes to the shape of her body.

Jon suppresses a growl, and with it the urge to sweep down there and wrap her in his own cloak to shield her from the wanting eyes of the men who man the wall. He forces himself to turn a deaf ear to the whispers from next to him as Pyp and Grenn catch sight of her.

"Ain't that as sight to see," Pyp murmurs to Grenn who nods in agreement. Nearby, Rast makes a crass comment about how he'd be more than happy to take her for a roll between the sheets. Jon shifts his weight angrily, and beside him Ghost lets out a low growl, red eyes fixed on the fool boy who wisely backs off and takes his business elsewhere.

"Shut up," Sam hisses at their friends, receiving a glare in return.

"Why should we?" Grenn snaps back, "We ain't doing no harm in looking."

"Maybe," says a slow drawling voice, and Jon turns to see Tyrion watching them with amusement clear on his face, "Young Sam here wants to save you from getting your arses handed to you by Stark for eyeing up his Lady." Jon scowls at the shorter man when all eyes swivel to stare at them.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Pyp yelps, and Grenn nods, wide-eyed. Jon glowers at them, but says nothing. Next to him, Tyrion snorts.

"Lad's terrified of my niece," He says, and Jon shoots him a wounded look.

"What?" Shocked yelps emit from his new friends and Jon scowls.

"How can ye' be scared of her?" Pyp gapes, while Tyrion snickers.

"You haven't met my niece," he tells the boys, "she's been terrorizing the Court since she learnt to walk. Don't mock the boy for his common sense."

"She looks nice," Sam comments, as if he has any knowledge on the subject, "like she'd be a good wife."

"I don't know," Jon says honestly, "I've barely met her."

"Pyp! Grenn!" A senior commander calls and the small gathering breaks up.

"Lucky bastard," he hears Grenn mumble grouchily as he and Pyp leave for their watch atop the Wall. It's the most honest thing anybody has called him in the past week, but the word bastard still stings.

* * *

Tyrion sits in the chair, nursing a headache as his niece paces back and forth across the chamber, an almost panicked frenzy to her movements. He hasn't seen her look so stressed since she was eleven and her parents were arguing over whether or not she'd be allowed to learn to use a blade. She wrings her hands, spinning back to face him with desperate eyes.

Tyrion sighs.

"If he means that much to you, then why not _tell_ the boy Myrcella." He asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. She's half in love with the bastard-turned-legitimate teenager, and it takes a lot for him to hold back from speaking bluntly as he so often likes to do, he has no doubt that his niece would take the reality of her infatuation not being real love so easily – she's too much like her father.

"He wants to join the Watch," Myrcella cries, pulling at her hair in frustration. "What am I supposed to do? Tie him up and haul him away over my saddle?" Tyrion tilts his head to the side, trying not to grin too broadly at the mental image her words conjure up.

"Well," he replies, "it'd certainly get his attention."

Mrycella glares at him, sitting down heavily on the cot he's been using as a bed, and he can't help but chuckle.

"Look, right now his thoughts are focused on the Wall," Tyrion sighs, "he knows what he'd be giving up, but he sure doesn't know what he's going to be missing out on. That's the problem with these uptight northerners. They think too much–" And here, her uncle pauses to point at her "and coming from me, that's saying something."

Myrcella twists a curl around her finger, frowning as she thinks his words over, before an expression of devious clarity spreads over her face.

"That's it!" His niece yelps, shooting straight up in her seat, before bounding over to kiss his cheeks.

"You're a genius!" Then she is gone in a swirl of fabric, the door slamming shut behind her, and Tyrion groans wearily before reaching for the nearest wineskin. Why do his family always have to be so high-strung?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tyrion wonders if he should be worried, but he pushes it away – Myrcella's been steamrolling people into doing as she pleases for a decade now, and she hasn't brought the kingdom crashing down just yet.

* * *

He's half asleep in bed when she comes to him like a temptress in the night. The door opens with a soft creak and his eyes flutter open as he hears the latch settle back into its home and the click of the lock. Wearing a dark cloak, the Princess - _his_ Princess stands against the door with her hair unbound and spilling down her back in a cascade of chocolate curls and her wild eyes fixed firmly on him.

"Your Highness?" he says as he sits up, more than a little surprised - and he subtly pinches the inside of his wrist to check if he is dreaming, because highborn ladies do not walk into the chambers of bastards during the night - newly legitimized or no.

"Please Jon, I rather think we are past titles by now," she says, red lips smiling at him. Beside him, Ghost stirs and after looking back and forth between the two humans, the Dire Wolf slips down from the bed and pads to the worn rug next to the small fire that crackles away in the hearth.

"Myrcella," he says, tipping his head in respect, "what are you doing here?"

"A Lady can't visit?" she asks, pushing off of the door and smoothly gliding over to perch on the side of his bed. Jon eyes her warily.

"It's the middle of the night." He reminds her, shifting nervously as she edges closer to him and moves to straddle him. Her knees placed firmly on either side of his waist, her chosen seat is his thighs.

"Not quite," she replies, looking down as she makes sure that her cloak isn't caught underneath her.

"I'm not decent." He protests, grasping at straws because his mind is going all sorts of places now that she is settled across his lap and lowering herself down and he knows that if she slides a little bit lower she'll feel what the thin cotton sheet is unable to hide.

"What a shame," she murmurs, eyes glinting wickedly and Jon tenses, "neither am I."

She pulls the ties holding her cloak loose and the inky black fabric slips from her shoulders to pool around her pale thighs and hips leaving her bare to him in a way that is entirely inappropriate. His thought process stutters to a halt as he stares at her, drinking her image and searing it into his brain.

Her skin is pale like the moon and seems to go on forever as his eyes trail upwards from her thighs, where he catches a glimpse of short curls between her legs that is the same shade as her hair, to a tapered waist and small, but pleasingly rounded, pert breasts whose coral nipples are puckered in the cool air. He follows the column of her slender throat up to her face, and for a moment he sees a flicker of uncertainty in her normally self-assured expression before it disappears once more and the minx flexes the muscles in her thighs and traps him more effectively than before.

He opens his mouth to protest; a token protest really, because he's not entirely sure he has the willpower to stop her from doing whatever she damn well pleases, not when she's wiggling in his lap like that - and she knows what she is doing to him goddammit, she has to know if that little grin she is wearing says anything about it.

But she isn't interested in his halfhearted attempts to escape and cuts him off with a kiss, leaning forward to press bare skin against bare skin, which makes him shiver even as her hands find a place to rest on his shoulders and push him back until he is lying down and she is stretched over him like a lioness, coiled and ready to pounce on her unsuspecting prey. There is a rustle as the cloak slips from around her legs and down to the floor leaving them with only a fur lined blanket and thin sheet between their lower halves.

Above him, Myrcella shifts her weight and curls her toes into his blankets, pushing at it with her feet and wiggling against him as she determinedly removes one of the few remaining barriers. It's not an entirely smooth movement, but it's made sexy to him by her innocent (if innocent can even be rightly applied to this situation at all) determination.

Her body jerks and she tugs stubbornly on a section of the sheet, causing her hair to slip over a shoulder and brush against him, he shivers – but from the cold or anticipation, he isn't sure. Another sudden movement almost dislodges her from his lap entirely, and against his will, Jon finds his hand shooting up to gently grasp her shoulder in order to steady her. He might not have suggested this game, but he can't lie to himself, he doesn't want her to stop.

When she draws back from the kiss, he can see that her eyes have darkened to a deep forest green and that her pupils are full blown against the viridian iris' and she shifts once more to sit up. She takes his hand in hers, and lifts it to cup one of her breasts – the skin feels cool and smooth beneath his hand and he absently squeezes and kneads the flesh gently earning a soft sigh of pleasure as she closes her eyes and arches her back in order to push herself more firmly against him. When he circles her erect nipple with his thumb and flicks it, he is rewarded with a moan and her hips rutting against his. Somewhere in that moment, the sheet slips free and his breath leaves him in a whoosh when he feels the damp slickness between her thighs rub over his straining cock.

The noise that comes out of his mouth when she tilts her hips ever so slightly and catches the tip of him in the crease between her lower lips is far from manly, much to his embarrassment, but it certainly serves to amuse her and she reaches down between them to take him in her hand, twisting her wrist as she strokes him in a steady repetition before adjusting her grip and moving so that she is able to begin to slide down onto him.

It's a slow progression, as she settles into the pattern of sliding down around him a short way, flexing around him, and rising up again before repeating her movements, taking a little more of him in with each pass. A single tight squeeze nearly has him undone, and his hips snap upwards of their own accord, burying him inside her. Both teens gasp at the feeling, and Myrcella's movements falter as her calves' tremor, her body shaking with surprise from the sudden intrusion being much deeper inside than anticipated. She clutches at his shoulder, burrowing her face into the curve of his neck while she tries to collect herself; Jon finds himself pulling her closer, one arm tucked around the small of her back, the other hand on her hip.

She shifts, pressing her forehead to the underside of his chin and a kiss to the hollow of his neck. Jon hisses in surprise and pleasure as, almost in tandem, she flexes her core muscles and squeezes tightly around him. He can feel her smile against his skin, and growls low in his throat, thrusting his hips in response, pleased when she lets a muffled gasp slip from her mouth.

It's not something that is perfect, they are two inexperienced teenagers without adult supervision, engaging in one of the oldest dances known to man, but that's what instinct is for. Instinct and hormones push them forward, curious and inquisitive touches slowly turn into a steady rhythm of heated movements.

Drunk on endorphins, Jon decides on a change of pace and manages to get a foot underneath him, pushing up and rolling her over. The movement has a bit more power than is necessary and they slide straight off the edge of the (thankfully low-built) bed and onto a pile of fabric made up of her cloak and his sheets on floor. Myrcella laughs, winding a hand into his thick curls and pulling him down to her lips, locking a leg over his hip. Jon smirks as the change in pace and angle leads to his partner being the one to whine needily, breathy gasps puff against his ear with every shallow thrust and flex.

She tilts her hips and rocks upwards into him, in time with his own momentum, and Jon slants his mouth against her own to steal a kiss. Her eyes are darkened with lust, and absently Jon wonders if his are too before he tucks his arm under the small of her back, lifting her hips higher so he can control their movements and switches to a quicker pace of shorter thrusts, which draws a keening noise from his lover as she shivers in his arms, suddenly becoming impossibly tight around him and panting desperately. It's enough to push him over the edge, and he feels his stride falter as he reaches his peak, the muscles in the arm holding them up buckle and give in as pleasure sweeps through his body, reducing his thought process to mush.

Once the haze dies down enough for his brain to function again, Jon laughs, leaning in to press one last kiss to her lips and then settles them pair of them down in the furs. Neither one of them moves to separate, more than happy to remain tangled together. He raises a hand to trail his fingers through her long inky hair, humming absent-mindedly.

A low whine grumbles across the room, and Jon shares a startled look with Myrcella. It didn't come from either of them. Jon pushes up onto his elbows in order to locate the noise, and his face burns red when he catches sight of Ghost. Poor Ghost who spent the entire time curled up in the corner with a foreleg covering his eyes. Myrcella rolls over and can't help but laugh at her companion's flushed expression.

"Oh dear."

Jon flops back down on the blankets, tucking an arm around his paramour, pulling her closer toward him. Yeah. _Oh dear_ sums it up quite nicely.

* * *

They lay there together in the quiet, hours later, watching the moon set and the stars shift across the sky. Myrcella stirs, and turns in his arms to look up at his face, her body relaxed and pliant in his arms.

"Hello," she says, and Jon smiles.

"Hello," he replies, pulling her closer and burrowing his face in her hair. In the stories, women always smell of flowers and fine spices, and are pristine in appearance. But Myrcella smells of must and sex, her skin is dusted with a fine layer of dried sweat. The kohl that had lined her eyes and lashes is smeared. She doesn't look like a Princess, but Jon finds that he doesn't care.

"I suppose you want me to drink Moon tea," She voices sleepily, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. Jon blinks, confused.

"Moon tea?" he asks. The words sound familiar, but he cannot quite place them, cannot understand what she means.

"To prevent a child," she tells him slowly, her brow furrowing slightly as she lifts her face to look at him. It honestly hadn't occurred to him – and for that he curses his own stupidity, ' _Fool boy, thinking with your cock.'_ – he hadn't really though much on anything since she'd loosened the ties on her cloak.

"You've been very clear on how you feel about having children out of wedlock," She tells him, "and we both know my Mother won't settle for anything less than a well-planned and expensive wedding."

Jon sighs, letting go of her waist in order to rub his palm against his forehead.

"Gods, I hadn't even thought – are you, I mean, I just –" The words refuse to come, making him feel like a complete and utter tosser. Myrcella snorts.

"I drank some before I even came here, and I'll drink some again when I break my fast," she tells him, earning her a wide-eyed look.

"Oh please," she laughs, "I've been getting my own way for _years_ ,and I've learnt it is best to always be prepared."

Jon deflates with a groan.

"What have I gotten myself into," he grumbles to himself, shifting onto his back and laying his arm across his face so he doesn't have to see her smug smile. He's not used to being outwitted by highborn ladies. But he supposes he might as well get used to it… someday. Not right now. Right now he wants to wallow.

Perhaps if he hadn't covered his eyes, he would have seen Myrcella's eyes glint mischievously and had some semblance of warning before she pushed the sheets back and slid ontop of him once more.

He yelps with surprise when he feels her cold hands press against his stomach, and opens his eyes to see his devious betrothed flash him a cheeky smile.

"Just once more," she pouts, "before I have to go."

Jon suddenly finds himself more than happy to acquiesce to his Lady's wishes. A memory of something Theon had once mentioned slips into his mind, and he grins to himself, rolling Myrcella over onto her back once more. He wonders what she'll think of a different kind of kiss.

* * *

Myrcella settles into Briar's saddle with a suppressed groan, waving away Jon's concern with a flap of her hand.

 _Did somebody have fun last night?_ Harry's voice whispers slyly through her mind and Myrcella blanches.

Oh hell. She'd actually managed to completely forget about her little friend, caught up in her mischief making. Something that carries close resemblance to a snicker tickles at the back of her cortex, and she sends a mental growl his way. Another snicker comes her way before she feels Harry's presence fade into the background, his amusement sated. Myrcella exhales grouchily, her good mood soured a little.

"Rough night?" Tyrion says with a rather sly grin, as he and Jon both mount their own horses. Myrcella smiles prettily, nudging Briar forwards and out the gates towards Moletown.

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," She replies with fake cheer and a saccharine smile.

"Are you quite sure?" Tyrion pries, eyes dancing merrily, "because I slept awfully, and as I made my way down to the kitchens to find myself some ale, I heard some very strange noises." Jon's face burns red at the implications and memories both.

"Although, I suppose that it would be entirely possible for some animals managed to find their way inside the castle. Whatever they were doing, they sounded very enthusiastic about it." Tyrion adds, and Myrcella scowls with annoyance.

"Oh do shut up, Uncle dearest,"

Tyrion's laughter lasts for the next mile, and his amused grin for a week.

* * *

 **AN. Tyrion's a little shit, isn't he? Ah well, as far as he's concerned, he's gotten some entertainment, his niece has gotten what she wanted, and in the process she's done something that would no doubt horrify her mother. Win-win.**

 **So… That was the first sex scene I've ever written. No joke. I've been avoiding writing smut for years, going out of my way to write around that type of, ah, thing. I'm afraid I've never been very lucky with sex. At 21, I've only ever had one lover – no, wait, sorry: two. Make that only one male lover, and I'm pretty sure that only occurred… four times? So do forgive me if I have errored, or written a falsehood.**

 **Oh, and if anybody was wondering, the hold up on this fic has nothing to do with Myrcella's bold move. That was the easiest part to write. The hard part was filling in the stuff around it. Bah.**

 **To finally answer the question y'all have been asking for months. Myrcella is a Snow Leopard.**

 **I had a shocking 33 reviews on FFN alone within 24 hours, and checked the timestamps on my Inbox to verify, and this is my final decision. All of these time stamps are set by FFN's (or possibly Google's) time zone, which is PST on Fri, 27 Nov 2015.**

 **The winners were:**

 **SpaceTraintotheUniverse [07:20:43]**

 **Godlikelover16 [07:25:04]**

 **Detectivegirl21 [07:32:30]**

 **monstar315 [08:19:38]**

 **EveJHoang [11:58:48]**

 **The first response for AO3 was a clear half hour after Eve. So far only one of them has responded to my direct requests, so if y'all are on that list, I suggest you contact me and we can discuss where we'll work your OC in.**


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